Love in Pieces
by xartxisxaxbangx
Summary: Vault of Gaahina drabbles centering around love and hate and flowers. 1. Because She Loves Him, You Know?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm back! (Yeah, I know, that's what I said last time too, before I disappeared for 3 years oh my god it's been 3 years.) I can't promise frequent updates or anything, but I have lots of tiny drabble ideas I'm going to slowly put up I think. Hope you guys like these! And I'm so sorry if they don't make much sense, they sounded good in my head /sadface/. **

**I don't own anything, and enjoy! **

1.

She loves him, you know?

And she thinks she can forgive him just about anything.

It's okay that he leaves the house at two in the morning, creeping silently out of bed and out of the house and out of her life for a short three hours. It's okay, it's okay, it's _perfectly_ _okay_, she tells herself over and over and over again.

She does not know what he could be doing outside, though she already knows he doesn't sleep, but she has an idea. She has an idea, born from the slightly metallic smell that refuses to leave his clothes no matter how many times she scrubs desperately at them. Her idea is born from the tiny dried flecks on the left side of his jaw that he always misses, no matter how carefully he cleans the rest of him off.

Her idea is born from the quiet screaming at the back of her head that she cannot seem to get away from, no matter how she tries to drown it out.

She busies her hands with the washing and cooking and cleaning so that she can't reach up to her eyes and curl her fingers into the sockets and yank her sight out by the eyeballs. She already knows it won't help, because the image of his bright, wet hands is burned into her brain, those hands she lets touch her in places she blushes to think about. In her spare time (she has quite a lot of that, it seems), she wonders idly how many times screams he has heard in his lifetime.

A dangerous thing, spare time.

Sometimes she thinks she might be going crazy. To love and to obey is her duty, and she doesn't want to think about how hard it is to do that.

But then she looks at him, the person who took her from the blinding silence of the compound, with its deafening hate that stuck in her throat, and she thinks she can forgive him just about anything.

Because she loves him, you know?


	2. This Is Not A Love Story

**A/N: Hello again! I hope you like this one! Sorry for any OOCness :(**

2.

This is not a love story. This is a hate story, or not a story at all, but a slow subtle chloroform-poisonous dream that they cannot shake free. Or not a dream at all, but a black nightmare that opens a salivating mouth and bares snow-white teeth and digs its rusty claws into them and refuses to let go.

In this story – no, dream – no, nightmare, the couple does not hold hands and kiss sweetly. The couple does not look at each other with bright longing eyes. The couple are not a couple. They are two fighters locked in a battle that will go on so long as one of them lives, and then some.

He hates her and her small, pathetic weaknesses that seem to beg him for protection, and he is not a protector and he never has been. He hates her well-meaning personality because she treats everyone the same and she is not his to sweep into a corner and cage up. He hates her soft, quiet blood that smells like love and tells him to break her white, white skin open and drink her into him.

She does not know how to hate, but she dislikes him and the death in his eyes that he has never tried to hide from her, because he is not a protector and he never has been. She cannot hate him for his eternal bloodlust because it is the demon's fault and the village's fault and who better than she to know how it must feel to be constantly despised?

The only thing she hates is the lingering taste of blood that never quite leaves his mouth. When she kisses him, she thinks she can taste coppery hellfire dancing on the tip of his tongue and she thinks she can see stars blooming behind her eyelids.

So they do not love each other, but they do need each other. They need each other as the tide needs the moon, as the earth needs the sun, but theirs is a cracked moon and a black sun, and still they need each other.

If she were to die, he would kill the person who had done it – kill him and enjoy it. He would not kill himself, because that is not his way, because he had to live, because the sand would not let him anyway. He would let the demon out, and no doubt he would cause a horrific amount of damage before something finally brought him down, without her all-seeing eyes behind him. He'd follow her in his own way, then.

If she were to leave, he would kill her first – rip her up and tear her hair and claw out her precious eyes because her face has never mattered to him and if she were to decide upon leaving, he has already lost her.

If he were to die (because she would never let him leave), she would walk into a desert sea and let the sand take her slowly, because she can hate him but she cannot live in a world without him in it.

This is not a love story, nor a hate story, nor a dream, nor a nightmare. This is a little girl and a demon, tied together in an intricate knot of which it is impossible to cut one without cutting the other. This is not-quite-hope, not-quite-redemption, but existing together the only way they know how. This is an eternity.


End file.
